


Triangulation

by luna65



Category: Top Gear (UK) RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-30
Updated: 2013-11-30
Packaged: 2018-01-03 00:17:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1063409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luna65/pseuds/luna65
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James is still struggling to find his bearings in the landscape of Jeremy's desires.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Triangulation

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel-of-sorts to "Scenes from a rubbish romance," in that it takes place after the events of that story, primarily during the boys' appearance at this year's _Top Gear Live_ festival in Durban. Mentions of the WAGs/families and the scandal again, but this has a bit of a different angst than the previous tale.

“I’m not bringing her with me this time, alright?!”

Three faces regarded the speaker standing at the head of the room and all bore some kind of variation on skepticism, as if they’d been sculpted using the same guidelines, but each fascia architecture required a different strategy.  The speaker’s face slumped into familiar lines of frustration and pouting, an unintentional comedic subtext occurring which meant his colleagues had to struggle to maintain their stoic facades.

One of the three seated at the table spoke, his voice rendered in clipped tones as filtered through anger, the kind of painfully formal voice he used professionally, otherwise affection for the person he directed the response to would have rendered his accent broad and somewhat teasing.

“Nor will she _just happen_ to be staying at the same hotel we are, is that understood?”

“Look, I said she won’t be there and -”

“But you keep on doing it, don’t you?” another one of the three shot back, a flash of his infamous temper coloring his rhetorical question.  “And wot we’re telling you is: we’re not having it.  If you expect us to continue to cooperate in this venture, then you have to stop thinking with your willy, because I don’t believe it’s actually any smarter than you.”

The men at the table were hit by a flurry of snickers like a cloudburst, struggling to bring their collective composure under control, despite the consideration that they were all still united against the other, but he might take advantage of the laughter and manipulate to his own ends,  He was annoyingly good at that, it had likely kept any number of people from _actually_ killing him on various occasions.

“I swear upon the Baby Jesus -” he began, raising a hand.

“Piss off; swear on your mum and I might believe you.”

This from the one who was angry most of all, the one whose denim-blue eyes now flashed with a cold fire the other couldn’t recall ever having seen, not even in the most frustrated of moments under arduous circumstances when they were ready to attempt mayhem upon one another in the presence of the all-seeing eyes of a three-camera setup.  His shoulders slumped, arms dangling at his sides, swinging slightly, giving rise to that anthropomorphic comparison the others gleefully used every chance they could.

“I’ve had to go it alone, every fucking place -”

“You’ll understand that we’re not particularly sympathetic at this juncture,” another of the men stated.  He was the calmest of the three but his expression was also impatient, as rendered by his stare which might shatter glass, cut concrete.  It reminded the speaker of something his oldest daughter had recently said to someone on the phone whilst in earshot: _“So done with your shit, eh?”_   And it cracked the defensive shield he had been metaphorically wielding for months; in the larger sense he was who he had always been, but in the eyes of whomever he might encounter there was always a split-second of wondering if someone would spit in his face.  He was used to being a disappointment, but then somehow finding his way to redemption once more. 

“We are _all_ only human,” he opined lightly, the smoke-cured rumble of his voice rendered the pronouncement louder than he meant.   But it didn’t have the effect he was hoping for; the one it was meant for rolled his eyes and looked away and silence sucked all the remaining civility out of the airspace.

 _We’re going down, chaps_ , he imagined Andy announcing as the charter flight of their mutual bonhomie dropped out of the sky, and all which would follow was panic and choking and explosions and twisted metal.  No oxygen masks to fall from the overhead compartments, no parachutes, no last-minute prayers or confessions.

No _it was a honor and a privilege and the most brilliant thing..._

Only something like this: no air, and silence...but wait, not quite, his pulse beat upon eardrums already battered from loud music and louder motors.

“Can I have a moment with Richard, please?” Jeremy asked them all.

 

“You can fix it,” Richard asserted in response to the query.  “But you have to **want** to fix it.  And not with a hammer - not literal, not figurative, not imaginative.”

“A pretend hammer?” Jeremy said, looking at the other as if his colleague had suggested he could shit a rainbow _and_ the pot of gold which was its terminus.

“I wouldn’t put anything past you, Jez, you always find a way to be ridiculous.”

 

It had all started with lunch.  A lunch at one of their favorite cafs, just he and his dearest friend, eggs and chips and strong tea.  But Andy wasn’t laughing at any of Jeremy’s usual quips.  Oblivious, Jeremy carried on between bites and slurps. 

“So when are we meeting the promoters?” he inquired, as it was time to work out the details for their annual festival, to be held once more in South Africa.  Jeremy had pushed for Moses Mabhiba Stadium in Durban, state of the art and a stunning piece of architecture.   

Andy sighed.  “I know this will seem sudden but it has been brought to my attention that the event - and, in fact, the destiny of the entire brand as it now exists - will only occur if you do one thing.”

Jeremy ceased chewing, his mouth hanging open slightly.  “Huh?”

“Stop your idiocy!  I am fucking knackered of working damage control and I’d like to be reassured that if I let you out into the world - bearer of our insanely lucrative brand, representative of all it stands for - that you can manage not to cause a scandal, and not to potentially alienate your colleague forever!”

“Andy have you finally gone mental?”

“James threatened to quit.”

“Wot?  You’re not serious!”

“Do I look like I’m bloody having it on with you?”

“When?”

“He came ‘round for dinner, brought some nice plonk - said it was something Oz told him to buy - we talked about all the sorts of things you think are boring and then he fucking dropped it on me like Fat Man and Little Boy.”

“Wot’se want, more money?”

“James May is not so craven, you know that!  He loves wot he does, but he can’t stand you.  Says it’s a recent development and when I asked how did it happen he said that he’d rather teach pensioners in Hackney to do electrical repairs than work with you a moment longer.  It took more alcohol than he brought to get him to agree to reconsider.”

“Well wot did he say about -”

“Said he was tired of you being stupid and because you are stupid, being followed by the paps everyfuckingwhere.  End quote.” 

Jeremy considered the remains of his lunch; he had lost his appetite but the panicked fluttering in his stomach felt more like the flying beetles they’d seen in Africa than butterflies.

“He’s just going to walk away from the best thing that ever happened to him?” 

Despite the outward positioning of their power dynamic, Andy had always deferred to his force of nature brethren, it was just easier.  But sometimes he would indeed put his trainer-shod foot down, as he did now.

“Let me tell you something: James, on his own - science films on Four or what-have-you - he’s fine.  Programmes, books, adverts, he’s golden.  He is a personage people trust, admire, feel like they could go down the pub for a pint and a packet of crisps -”

“- and listen to him complain about crisps with ridiculous names,” Jeremy cut in.

“- and women adore him, for reasons I can’t quite fathom.” Andy continued.  “But my point is that he can survive just fine without us.  He has credibility.   _Top Gear_ , on the other hand, would never be the same.  And, likely an entire portion of your fanbase would blame you, wouldn’t see it as just a natural progression of events, if you let him go.  This programme is your baby, your dream job.  So why - in the name of all that is holy - are you fucking it up?!”

“I’m not!” Jeremy protested.

“Y’know why they always say ‘y’can’t have everything?’  Because y’can’t!  If y’could then things would be very different, wouldn’t they?  But you reside upon some high windy plateau, apparently, which allows you to think you’re special.  And that was fine when your priorities were in order but -”

“I know you all think it’s wrong but you just don’t understand -”

“No, don’t!  Don’t make me regret my feelings, my loyalty.  Because in this case I don’t want to understand, it’s too awful.  And you kept it a dirty secret because that’s just wot it was, eh?  If you’d just said, ‘look we’re done, Francie and me, and I have someone new,’ but you didn’t do **that** , y’just slinked ‘round the henhouse and made off with the prize layer, thinking no one was the wiser.”

Jeremy blinked, knowing he’d ventured into some kind of borderlands, and on the other side of it was his best mate’s censure.

“So don’t tell me ‘bout not understanding because no, I **don’t** understand subterfuge which destroys a family.”

“But I haven’t!” Jeremy exclaimed.

“Haven’t you?  You’ll see, in the years to come.  Everyone’s got a brave face now, but you’ll see.  The knives’ll come out, someday, and you’ll have to answer to it.” 

Jeremy gathered his impending outburst, tottering upon his tongue, and swallowed it.  He sighed heavily and turned a solemn face to the other.

“I understand everyone’s cross, but that’s not going to make me end it with Phils, we’ve a good thing.  Francie made it clear long before all this I was only useful for certain things.  One can only endure the cold for so long.” 

Jeremy cleared his throat, trying to breathe steadily as emotions churned inside him on the high spin cycle.

“You’re all the lucky ones, and I’m not asking for your pity.  But it’s true, you cannot understand wot it’s like for me out here.  And it’s nice to find someone who doesn’t care ‘bout any of that bollocks.  But I’ll make it right with James, I promise.”

Andy gave him a curt nod.  “It’d be best, Jez, for the sake of your own soul if nothing else.”

Jeremy nodded, but of course he couldn’t say why he agreed with the assertion.

 

Jeremy found himself fidgeting, and he had flown around the globe many times over, but traveling with James and Richard made him restless.  He took a photo of the two and Tweeted it, the caption his usual brand of affectionate mockery.  James’ two-fingered salute missed the flash by seconds.

“Aaah, stole your soul!” he teased.

James’ look stopped him cold, it was a _I can’t believe you just said something profound_ kind of look, and then his and Richard’s phones chimed in unison with the Twitter alert.

“Love you too, Jez,” Richard called out, extending his middle finger like the Secret American he was.

James continued to scrutinize him, frowning, and Jeremy pulled a bag of Wagon Wheels out of his carry-on.

“Amnesty?” he asked, offering the snack.  He felt like he was coaxing a wary feral cat.  Anything to erase that ice floe distance in the other’s stare.  James reached forward, a quicksilver snatch, and the expression melted into a softer pondering.

“You actually stood in a shop and stared at a display and gave a thought to me?”

So many opportunities for sarcasm and Jeremy passed them all with a speed he usually only reserved for supercars.

“Yes.”   Then a smile, aimed at that still-frosty blue observance.

“It’s a start.”  

Jeremy could tell James was pleased because he washed them down with the midmarket champers the airline provided and smiled...just slightly, but Jeremy knew.  A decade of studying that face had taught him all the nuances therein.

 

The talent and executive crew had been booked into the Beverly Hills, a beautifully luxurious hotel built directly upon the uMhlanga Rocks coastline.  The Indian Ocean immediately beyond the grounds rivaled the lustrous blue of the June sky, so close they could hear the crash and shoosh of the waves upon the rocky shore.

“And this is Winter,” Jeremy observed as they departed the SUV which had delivered them from the airport.  “Some might think it was Summer.”

“But an incredibly civilized Summer,” James noted, his hair a sudden sandy-gray tangle in the marine breeze. 

“Doesn’t get cold here,” the driver observed, pulling their luggage from the hatch.  “Not like Joburg.”

“Feels like holiday all year ‘round then?” Richard asked with a grin.

The man shrugged his thin broad shoulders, offering a polite smile in return.  “When the sun shines you can’t be cryin,’ bru.”

They all smiled and agreed, tipping him generously as well as posing for a photo, they were all determined this would be Fun, having left their gloomy nation far behind on purpose.

“No bellyaching,” their wrangler declared, handing Jeremy and James their card keys once the group and their baggage was assembled in the lobby.  “Got you lot the smoking suites.”

“I shall erect a statue in your honor upon our return to Blighty,” James quipped with a smirk.

“ **This** is a proper hotel!” Jeremy proclaimed, and thus placated, The Loud One led the march to the elevators.

 

Various members of the ZA press trooped into the stadium’s hospitality facilities, which had been set up for the junket with assorted refreshments.  In the stands and in front of the stage they posed for photos, Richard standing slightly in front so as to not be entirely dwarfed by his lofty colleagues.  All media outlets patiently awaited a turn for a few words with the personages of the worldwide phenomenon, returned to these glorious shores once more.  As the interviews progressed it caused them to ease back into their hierarchy, the molecular bonds of their chemistry reforming, even as James had placed Richard between himself and Jeremy as a Maginot Line of interpersonal geography.  Although well-fed and stimulant-fortified, their fatigue was beginning to show, each of them took turns slumping upon the sofa as the inquisition wore on.  But upon reaching near the end of the polite assault, first taking time for a slash and a crafty fag, James saw Jeremy had decided to take up the middle of their perch, and with a heavy sigh sat on the right...but to his surprise, not altogether unwillingly.   Ever the anchor, Jeremy’s pull, his enduring solidity, was something James found an equivocal comfort.

They enjoyed talking about why they loved coming to South Africa, the enthusiasm and upbeat character of the nation, how welcome and appreciated they always felt, how ebullient in general to be away from dour Blighty.  The discussion moved into car culture and then an entirely obvious and yet never truly dissected question was posed: _which is the best car to have sex in?_

Jetlag made them all pause momentarily, and of course they would have different approaches: Jeremy going for the laugh, Richard trying for a bit of spunk, and James giving it actual serious consideration.  But Richard was first out of the gate with a quip, and Jeremy concurred.  James followed along in the wake of Richard’s jape, and when he saw Jeremy laugh at his answer, the type of laugh he gave James when they had occasion to be alone and amuse each other because that was their idea of foreplay...he thought of what he would have said to the other had they actually been alone.

“An ambulance, I should think, only because we’d likely need it afterwards.”

And they would have laughed, and the laughter would have washed them upon a shore of mutual desire...a circumspect and circuitous desire to be sure, but one which would have been resolved with equal applications of fingers and tongues and breath and skin meeting skin.

Richard laughed uproariously and Jeremy was laughing more on the inside, James thought, which seemed a strange consideration but he _knew_ , somehow he could glimpse the desire in his secret paramour.  And it became more apparent as James copped to the actual vehicle, and Jeremy gave him stick, putting a peculiar comedic emphasis on the phrase _bodily fluids_ , acting as though he was repulsed but the fact that he took the piss meant the exact opposite, such was the nature of Jezza’s torture.  So James brought it back upon the other by naming the vehicle of Jeremy’s first experience, making sure to qualify it by saying, “I know because you told me,” and Jeremy verified the reference.  James put his professorial spin on it, and then somehow the topic turned to their female viewership, with Jeremy quick to note - using a hand gesture - his co-presenters as the ones with the fangirls.

 _Bloody rubbish, you know loads of women adore you too_ , James thought.  But out of consideration for the the way in which La Scandale hung over them all, he said nothing in reply.  Jeremy began commenting on the nature of his ridiculous appearance and the other two fell into the rhythm of it, they were a three-headed monster of mocking bonhomie.  Although the interviewer attempted to move on they kept with it, and when James made the suggestion of the one thing Northerners were always sensitive about - being thought of as all airs - Jeremy took the bait, with a bit of a down-the-nose fey gesture as he continued to expound upon the topic and it just went on, out of their hands at that point but...they were together, they were _us_ , as Richard sometimes put it.

“Just us, right?” he’d say, “But -”

And he’d go on about whatever it was, meaning that it was for their ears only.

In the end James gave his expected expert opinion and the others conceded, and having Jeremy publicly agree expressed more than any apology ever would.

Their camaraderie - the mining of their personal minutiae - was the next topic of discussion and without really thinking about what he was saying, James related their seemingly endless conversations en route to the Pole: Just In Time management strategy, sandwich fillings...but it was the thing he said before that and he hadn’t even realized it until much later.

_We don’t have much in common, obviously, it’s what fuels our creativity._

And while on the surface it was wholly true, underneath James believed that they each had the other in common, the occluded mutual fascination with each other, fueling a certain sort of creativity as well. 

He wondered if Jeremy knew what he really meant by it.   Hope fluttered like a hitch in his breathing and he took a sip of wine to mask the ache it gave him.

 

“So,” James said to Jeremy on the drive back to the hotel, “you, with your _remarkably strong tongue_ , were unable to crack the tongue twister.” 

Jeremy just let out his near-breathless smoker’s laugh and Richard looked smug in the face of his apparent unchallenged victory.

 _Just us_ , the smallest of things.

 

Below the equator, the sun was merciless, even early in the morning, and breakfast by the sea was lovely but oh so bright.

“I’m glad rehearsal is relatively early,” Richard remarked between forkfuls of fried egg, “it’s going to be hot as balls out here after lunch.”

“Do we have to stay at the stadium all day?” James asked.

“At least today, I reckon,” Jeremy answered.  “Can’t risk getting us stuck in traffic before the show, it is rather a drive.”

“It’s worth it, though, this is tremendous,” Richard enthused, looking out at the sparkling aquamarine landscape.

Jeremy’s gaze followed suit and James found himself wondering… _Who are you thinking of, right now?  Who do you wish could see this with you?_  But then Jeremy looked over at him and pursed his lips just the slightest, an expression James knew intimately.

 _He’s playing nice, he knows he has to._  But he didn’t want to be so cynical, not in such a lovely setting.

“I do like the sea,” James said, in all simple sincerity.  And his colleagues laughed at him for sounding like a pensioner, and he let out with a raspberry in reply and today, at the very least, would be okay.

 

The day itself was full to bursting with the business of rehearsal and all the last-minute madness of setup and holding off any possible technical snafus.  The morning demanded focus and a wall-eyed wonder at the venue and how they were expected to project big enough to entertain all who would dwell within it.

“Never got to be a rockstar,” Richard ventured during lunch with his enduring grin, “but this is _better_!”

“Yes,” Jeremy chimed in, “not every rockstar gets to blow things up.”

“Well they _could_ ,” James pondered, “if they had the budget for it.”

“Is there time for some kip?” Richard asked their scheduling minder, one of the fresh crop of interns whose job it was to follow them around with a smartphone and a clipboard and a two-way radio and herd them from one obligation to the next.  Said minder gravely consulted all tools to hand.

“You could catch an hour now, but there’s another interview scheduled for three o’clock, last one before the show.”

“Dunno how they’re going to manage, it’s going to be noisier than the Blitz once they let everyone in,” Jeremy declared.

“It stays quiet in here, they tell me,” the minder replied.

“Right,” Richard said, rising and stretching.  “I’m for a nap.”  The minder led him away to another room.   

Jeremy folded his massive hands into his lap and considered the notion.  “S’pose I should too,” he said.

James leaned in, his voice a hushed murmur.  “C’mon.”

They walked out to their designated smoking area, roped off just for them, sparing a glance for the final stunt rehearsal taking place on the field below, the absolute precision and split-second timing required of the drivers.

“Looks good from up here,” Jeremy commented after lighting up, smoke drifting across deep blue sky above his head.

James sat down on the one of the plastic chairs provided by the venue, looking at Jeremy, allowing all the things he was feeling at that moment to enfold him: a full belly, the heat of the day and the sun on his face, the warmth of the smoke in his mouth and throat, the dizzying tag-end of jetlag, a vague thread of nervousness somewhere underneath all current emotions and ponderings, and the desire rising, evoked by something as simple as being (relatively) alone with this man.

“Come talk to me,” he said, gesturing to the other chair.

Jeremy sat down heavily but then seemed to demur.  “How ‘bout tonight?”

“For what?”

“To talk.”

“That’s why we’re talking now, you see, so we can -”

“Then you will?”

“Will you?  That’s a more valid question.”

“I’ve always _wanted_ to, y’know.  Can’t fault me for that.”

James sighed.   _That’s precisely why I do fault you, damnable man._

“It takes too much energy to be mad at you.  Especially in this heat.”

“Which is why tonight is better.  For everything.”

“You’ve been scheming it, haven’t you?  All this time.”

“And what if I have?  Will you?”

James sighed again, sighed out smoke and closed his eyes.  “Yes.”

 

The sea tumbled and tossed beyond their windows, wearing down sand and stone, eons existent.  The clean clear smell and taste of the wind from off the water, James thought it was a far better tonic than any stimulant...he could feel it scrubbing away the remnants of the evening: the roar of the attending crowd and the raucous laughter of the dinner to follow, the glare of the lights of the stadium and the whirl of music and voices at the _braai_ , always a grand celebration in the annals of South African hospitality.  Leaning against the balcony barrier, languidly exhaling smoke and watching it rush away in the wind, gulls and cormorants flashes of color against a sky which was really truly midnight blue, with its skein of constellations somewhat unfamiliar to his Western European reckoning.

“I’m too old for this bollocks,” he said to his companion, who was stretched out upon a chaise, wiggling his bare toes.  “Agonizing over your antics and such.”

Jeremy wanted to bellow, “As if anyone asked you to!” but wisely kept silent.

“I don’t know why I allowed you to hurt me, but there ‘tis.  And I can’t change you.  I s’pose Francie came to the same conclusion, yes?”

Jeremy shrugged.  “It was a mutually-rendered conclusion.”

“And you do need someone for your old age; you especially, God knows you’ll be useless on your own.”

“Look Slow, I’m sorry it upset you so.  I’m sorry if you ever felt embarrassed to be associated with me.  But for crikey sakes _you know me_ , you know I’m not a monster!”

James turned to regard him with a smirk.  “No, just a wankery magnet, one supposes.”

And so in this moment Jeremy knows it’s okay, and his regret flies up into the night to explore the wide reaches with the gulls and cormorants.  Flying over spaces of unending blue - he thinks of that David Gilmour song Francie liked: _aimless shameless blue_.  He thinks of James’ eyes, now warm as equatorial seas.

“And as long as you can stand there in your illusory supremacy then you’re golden,” he cracked, with his smooth-as-porridge-with-a-dollop-of-jam voice obfuscating the insult beneath layers of plummy tone.

“Get in my bed now, you strumpet,” James growled and Jeremy grinned.

 

Jeremy walks along the sand of the private beach which the hotel possessed, just a mere strip really, below the boulders which mark the shore’s edge.  The surf is like a tranquilizer: for just this moment he is worry-free.  Awaking to the sound of James’ snoring and regarding the other with an exasperated fondness.

“Nothing is worth your anger,” he whispered, and he half-believes it, at the very least.

He thinks about what he’s going to do when it’s all over, when the adventures are left to those of more rigour.  In his mind he is still 17, sometimes, still scheming and bored and restless for those moments of abandon and risk.  How then to lose such things, forever.  He can’t imagine it.

He looks up, just then, hearing a hail.  James is standing at the edge of the observation walk.

“Clarkson, how’d you get down there?!”

He grins and extends his gangly limbs.  “I flew!”

 

In his breakfast nook, James slurped a cuppa and perused the morning edition of _The Telegraph_ , whilst cataloguing the summer birdsong entering through a nearby window in another section of his brain.  He set the paper down and regarded the remains of his fry-up, dragging a crust end to sop up the last of it and then into his mouth.  Richard’s manic grin then lit up his phone display along with the drumbeat and metallic synth twang of the opening of “Born In The USA.”

“Morning Hammo,” he answered pleasantly.

“The Internet blew up again,” his friend informed him.

James frowned.  It was code for a certain type of occurrence, meaning his colleague couldn’t speak freely in that moment.  “Bloody Nora, wot’s gone down now?”

“Take a gander at Twitter, you’ll see.”

“Does it render our detente null and void?”

“Technically no, just the vultures pecking at his hide, is all.  He should have stayed put in the prior locale, had her shipped in.”

“Tssh, not if the kids were there, their mum wouldn’t have allowed it, but I don’t really give a toss.”

Richard blew out a breath which sounded a bit more impatient than a mere sigh.  “He doesn’t let go of things, you know, even if they let go of him.”

James _did_ sigh in response.  There was an ache deeper than his digestive tract, he felt it moving all around his body, even as he informed his esteemed cogitative organ that it was absurd to be hurt, stupid to be angry yet again.

“Thanks for the warning, but I’m not in the mood to hash this over, if you don’t mind.”

James tone was quiet, detached, and pings of warning sounded in his friend’s imagination.

“You alright then?” Richard asked, equally quiet...so quiet James could hear the chatter of the other’s female household in the background.

James let a handful of moments go by before allowing his ambivalence to speak for him.

“Well I rather have to be, don’t I?”

But hours later, during something as simple as replacing a fuse, James stopped, breathing heavier than he meant to.  He took a step back, his hands trembling.    _What I must think of myself, that I don’t actually go through with it._   Biting his lip, he returned to his task; formulating a plan, plotting a revenge...but a quiet one, a soft blow, a subtle agony.  Something the equal of what he continued to feel.


End file.
